Fulcrom followed Ulryk around the first floor. Any expectations of revelations or dramatic magic suddenly being uttered from the priest’s lips rapidly diminished, and it wasn’t long until he became bored with constantly loitering, prodding the spines of books, or blowing away dust to read the various titles:
Languages of the West, The Second Book of Poetics, Voyniches.
‘So what exactly are you looking for?’ Fulcrom whispered. He leant on one of the rails from which he could see the tiers above and the level below, where a handful of Villjamur’s citizens were either milling about or seated at dark wooden desks, studying by lantern light.
‘I told you, the other copy of The Book of Transformations,’ Ulryk replied, not annoyed at all at having to repeat himself. ‘It’s the only text that I desire, but I don’t expect to find it easily. And I have a casual interest in most other texts, theologies of course, to see if there are any deviations to aid my own research.’
‘So,’ Fulcrom gestured at the sheer expanse of the place, ‘you simply start at the bottom and work your way up, through a million books?’
The priest chortled quietly. ‘That could be the case, though I suspect I will be heading downwards, not up. No, for now, I am merely browsing — I feel so at peace here, amongst all this… recorded knowledge, this history.’
‘Didn’t you say most of it was fake?’ Fulcrom teased.
‘Oh, yes, some of it is, some of it isn’t. Each text should be studied in isolation. And each will bear the stamp of the author and, if one knows how to look, the way it has been constructed will reveal its origins. But none of this concerns me currently. Tell me, there are hidden rooms, I take it? Sections where the public are not permitted?’
‘There are, yes. And I’ve seen that you have free access — if you have any more trouble I can help you.’
‘If I may be so bold, I doubt you will be able to help.’
‘Sorry?’ Fulcrom asked, raising an eyebrow.
Ulryk closed the book he was scanning and came close to Fulcrom. ‘Do you think, in a repository of knowledge, you will know where everything is kept? The power in such words is immense. There are barriers everywhere to stopping the uninitiated from accessing such information. Why, you yourself know that the citizens of the city are limited in what they can see in terms of political goings-on. Do you think that this isn’t a tiered system of access?’
‘I’d never thought of it like that, and I’m still not quite sure I follow.’
‘We had such a system back at Regin Abbey. Even most of our own clerics were not permitted access to the more sacred texts, and those who were could not read them. Barriers to knowledge exist everywhere — it is one of the greatest methods of information control.’
‘So what do you plan to do?’
‘Find what I am not allowed to find,’ Ulryk replied mysteriously. He picked up a book nearby, closed his eyes and inhaled the aromas from the leather and then flicked through to smell the paper.
*
Fulcrom decided to leave Ulryk to his personal crusade to find his book. He was experiencing a sudden doubt about what the priest had said concerning the history of religion. Against so many books, so many opinions, there was a lot to overturn, despite the magic that Ulryk had shown him the other day.
Keep an open mind, Fulcrom told himself. The moment you shut out the improbable is the moment you fail as an investigator.
Fulcrom stood at the top of the stairs waiting for another bout of snow to ease off. Footprints littered the courtyard like dark entrails, and at the far end of the glass flowers someone was in the process of being helped to their feet, presumably having slipped on the ice. The couple on the bench had departed. But something was out of place.
The soldier on guard… Fulcrom thought, looking around. He said, ‘Someone’s here day in, day out.’
Fulcrom walked quickly down the steps of the library and, to one side, he spotted a group of twenty or so people huddled in a close circle. Some of them were clearly in distress, and one man was holding back his young child from seeing something, but the kid kept pushing through the coats and robes to get a better look.
‘Stand aside,’ Fulcrom called out as he approached. ‘Villjamur Inquisition.’
As two women parted, Fulcrom squirmed through the circle to see a dozen expressions of disgust, a body on the floor, and a slick pool of blood under the head and abdomen.
It was the guard who had been posted on the library steps.
His throat had been severed in a clean cut, the sign of a professional, and there was an open wound from his left shoulder to his right hip. His sword still sheathed, his hands were stain-free: the man had probably not even seen his attackers, probably wasn’t even alive long enough to clasp at his wounds.
Fulcrom immediately called everyone back, but he knew it was far too late to find any footprints. The public had long since trampled on any clues. Shit.
Back to the body and blood was still pooling. This was recent, very recent.
‘Did anyone see anything?’ he demanded of the crowd.
‘Sorry, mate.’
‘No.’
Then nothing but shrugs and silence and morbid curiosity. He moved among them, searching for blades or a guilty glance, but nothing seemed out of place. ‘No one is going anywhere. I want you all to remain here so I can get statements.’
He ignored the following groans from those whose routines were about to be interrupted. People seldom looked at the bigger picture, even with the blood before them.
Fulcrom pushed through the throng and commenced jogging in a wide arc, his cloak floating like wings as he scrutinized the perimeter of the courtyard and between the glass flowers, staring through the falling snow to see if anyone was perhaps running from the scene or acting suspiciously.
‘Shit,’ he breathed, the word clouding before his face. Why kill a member of the city guard here? This was clearly meant to be seen as a statement, a signature in blood.
He headed back to the scene of the murder under the gaze of at least thirty people now, and noticed, tied to the stone rail of the steps, a black rag, the token of the anarchists. This confirmed his hunch.
As he ordered citizens all to stand clear, he drew out his notebook from his pocket then began to jot down the details of the crime and sketch the position of the body; and, with a deep patience, he began to interview members of the public.
Any serenity to be found in this garden of glass flowers had been shattered.
TWENTY
Tane and Vuldon, it seemed, could get in anywhere with their newfound identities. On a rare evening to themselves, they decided the best thing to do was go for a drink, get to know each other a little better. Vuldon was fine with that. He knew that it was important to form a good relationship with someone who might, one day, end up saving his life.
They strolled through the sleet to one of the new silver and glass bars that were becoming more common in Villjamur. Cultist-enhanced lights and coloured lanterns made the place look surreal. A weird green glow fell across the shiny cobbles. A couple of young girls ran by laughing with a wax coat raised up above them to shelter from the wet, and they headed inside. Two soldiers stood either side of the doorway, dressed in military colours that Vuldon didn’t recognize: sleek, dark-red uniforms, with a white belt and hefty black boots.
Vuldon stepped up to the two men. ‘Interesting uniforms you got there, gentlemen.’
The one on the left spoke, ‘Colours of the Shelby Corporation Soldiers. Sir.’
‘Private militia?’ Tane queried.
‘Emperor’s allowed private companies to offer military services in the city, sir. What with the current military being overstretched.’